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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963401">See You In The Northern Lights</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormkpr/pseuds/Stormkpr'>Stormkpr</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cozy Cabin, Hurt and comfort, M/M, two guys snuggling, warm fireplace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:42:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,717</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963401</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormkpr/pseuds/Stormkpr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>World War II-era AU, with Miller an injured soldier and Jackson a doctor in a remote village.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eric Jackson/Nathan Miller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>World War II-era AU, with Miller an injured soldier and Jackson a doctor in a remote village.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Note: I’m posting this fic with and without a sex scene. This chapter – chapter one – will not have the sex scene. If you want to read the sex scene, just skip this chapter and go straight to chapter two – it has the entire fic including the sex scene.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Thank you to Penguin of Prose and Lexi for beta-testing!</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Nathan Miller, the young army Private, knows he is done for.</p><p>He’s been separated from his unit for more than a day now. He has walked and walked over barren, snowy, desolate terrain. The sky is heavily pregnant, and it’s clear that the snowstorm is going to begin any minute. He is alone.</p><p>Miller glances at his compass again. His radio is still dead, but his last communication with base told him the exact coordinates of the town and that there’s reportedly a “country doctor” who lives there.</p><p>Which is good because Private Miller has been walking endlessly. He can’t stop to take his boots off – it’s too cold, and if he stops he’ll never start again – but he imagines that the skin on his soles is shredded and his feet must resemble raw meet. From the way it feels he can imagine that every step is aggravating the shredded flesh; every step stings. The relentless wind whips against his face. The sun is setting rapidly and the battery inside his flashlight has died. Pretty soon he won’t be able to see two steps in front of himself.</p><p>He holds firm to his last communicate with base. A town. A doctor. But it’s so remote, so desolate here. How can there really be a town here? And even if there is, how is he going to reach it before the snowstorm hits or before his legs and feet give out?</p><p>And then he sees something in the distance, something standing out from the endless sea of snow. A light. A tiny light. And surrounding that, a few dots of dark masses. Could they be houses? Miller is filled with a new burst of energy and he compels his body to move faster. And then he sees something else - a flare shoots up into the sky. His base told him it would telegraph the town and tell them to be ready to treat their soldier. Is the flare for him, to help guide him?</p><p>If that’s the case, they are not a moment too soon. The sun has taken its final bow for the evening, and the flecks of snow are rapidly turning into large gobs of heavy, heavy snow. Even in the last minute or two, the denseness and speed of the snow has picked up. This snowstorm is going to hit full on any second now. Miller nearly jogs towards the flare, ignoring the burning in his feet. He keeps moving, and gradually the light he’d seen in the distance comes into focus as does the dark mass behind it. It is a cottage. A tiny one. Miller keeps moving his sore body, and soon he is able to make out a door opening and a man ushering him inside.</p><p>“I’m Dr. Jackson. They told me you were coming. Let me help you.”</p><p>***</p><p>Moments later, Miller’s aching body is finally starting to feel relief.</p><p>The doctor has helped him to a chair next to a roaring fireplace, and he has eased his boots and socks off. The doctor is bathing his feet in some sort of solution.</p><p>“I’m sorry. They’re gross,” Miller sighs.</p><p>“I’m a doctor. I’ve seen it all,” Jackson responds. He is focused on his task, tending Miller’s battered feet.</p><p>The rest of Miller’s body is slowly starting to thaw. He’s clutching the warm mug that Jackson handed him. It’s some sort of herbal tea. Miller would have preferred coffee, but he’s not about to complain. The drink is warming his insides, as the fireplace warms him from the outside. His fingers are no longer numb and his ears are no longer screaming from the cold. Whatever the doctor is doing seems to be helping his feet, though it stings a bit too. Some sort of antiseptic, Miller figures.</p><p>Now that he’s comfortable and safe, Miller takes a second to look around. He’s inside a one-room cabin. It’s sparse, but immaculate – not a spec of dust or debris anywhere. One corner contains a kitchen – nothing more than a nook with a stove, a sink, a countertop with a cutting board, a shelf with a few supplies, and a table and chair. The rest of the cottage’s contents appear to be a large bed, a door which Miller assumes leads to a washroom, and the heavenly fireplace. Humble as the place is, it’s warm and cozy too. There’s a rug on the floor, in earthy tones of red and brown. A few decorative pieces either sit on the mantle above the fireplace or hang on the walls – a vase, a painting depicting autumn leaves, a tapestry above the bed. Miller can now also see a small end table next to the bed, with several books stacked atop it. There’s a lantern on the table as well, which provides the cabin’s only light, along with the fireplace’s glow.</p><p>“Are you an artist too?” Miller asks, taking another glance at the tapestry. It seems to match the rug with its earthy shades.</p><p>“No,” Jackson says, smiling. “I get a lot of gifts from patients. Including the tapestry. It’s nice being a doctor where everyone knows you.”</p><p>The wind picks up outside, howling loudly. Looking out the cabin’s one window, Miller can see the snow just streaming down in thick sheets, a relentless assault. He once again is glad to be indoors.</p><p>“You got here just in the nick of time,” Jackson says, also turning to look out the window. Miller’s thoughts had been along the same lines.</p><p>“I’m very lucky.” He then adds, “And – thank you. You took me right in.”</p><p>“Of course. You’re a soldier. If we’re going to beat those Nazis, we need each and every soldier like you. Thank you for your service.”</p><p>“I wish I hadn’t gotten separated from my unit.”</p><p>Jackson nods, leans back a bit, and looks at his work. “There,” he says. “I’m going to bandage your feet up now and give you something for the pain. You said you don’t have any other injuries?”</p><p>“No. Hey – how’d you know I was coming? I don’t see a radio in here.”</p><p>“There’s one radio in town. The person who owns it told me you were coming and gave me a flare gun – and then ran back to his own cottage before the snowstorm hit. I had to just guess at when to send it.” Jackson gets to work on bandaging Miller’s feet. “I feel bad that I haven’t offered you any food yet.”</p><p>“Well,” Miller smiles, “one crisis at a time. There were the bloody feet, the entire body that needed to be thawed out, my dry mouth – which this tea is helping with.”</p><p>“Food is next on the list then,” Jackson acknowledges with a nod.</p><p>Miller cranes his head to look at the kitchen. “I don’t know how long we’ll be snowed in here. Do you have enough food to feed two mouths?”</p><p>“More than enough,” Jackson says. “The townspeople bring me so much food I never have to do anything in the kitchen but heat stuff up. I have bread and soups and stews….uh let me think what else. Oatmeal and jerky. And a few apples too. Sardines in a tin if we get desperate. I wish I had more vegetables but they’re hard to come by here, this deep into winter. I still have some canned carrots, peas, and corn though.” He smiles, “So, no need to worry. The stew is especially good. Soon as I’m done here, I’ll heat some up for you.”</p><p>“Wow, thank you. If my buddies could see me now they’d be so jealous at the royal treatment I’m getting! The Army doctors don’t fuss over you like this.”</p><p>Miller and Jackson share a laugh over that. Jackson finishes up his bandaging. “Done,” he says. “Let me get to that stew.”</p><p>“Hey,” Miller says, “you have a bathroom?”</p><p>“It’s right through that door,” Jackson gestures. “I don’t want you putting weight on those feet unless you have to though.”</p><p>“I know. But I need it – and also, I stink since I’ve been wandering for so long. I’d love to wash up.” He then tries to joke by adding, “Look, there’s an advantage to the fact that your cottage is so tiny. It can’t be more than four steps to get to the bathroom.”</p><p>“Five!” Jackson says, perhaps trying to mirror Miller’s attempts at humor. Miller notes that Jackson seems almost…too eager for Miller to find him funny.</p><p>“I can make it,” Miller insists, reaching down for his backpack and rising slowly to his feet.</p><p>“There are clean towels inside the washroom.”</p><p>Once he’s had a chance to wash up and change into his cleaner set of clothing, Miller feels even better. The smell of the stew heating on the stove is enticing and his stomach starts to dance happily in anticipation. His MREs gave him enough energy to keep moving but he suspects this stew will be so much tastier than the crackers and peanut butter he’s been subsisting on. Miller then hobbles the five paces back to his seat by the fireplace.</p><p>“Nice,” Miller sighs happily as he relaxes into the chair. Once again his limbs just start to unwind in front of the fireplace, the warmth helping him to feel as if the stress is melting away. Both his brain and his body are starting to truly accept the fact that he’s out of danger now – he’s no longer lost in the dark, outdoors with a snowstorm on its way. The wind and snow are doing their worst outside, but he’s safe inside here.</p><p>With this very kind doctor.</p><p>Very handsome doctor too, Miller notes.</p><p>He glances at Jackson. The doctor stirs the stew, and then reaches for a loaf of bread on the counter and slices it. He then takes hold of a small bottle on the shelf, and hands Miller a pill. “Pain reliever,” he says. He looks at Miller’s mug. “More tea?”</p><p>“Yes, please.”</p><p>Moments later, Jackson is dragging the cottage’s small table over to Miller’s side, and placing a bowl of stew and piece of bread on them. Miller eagerly digs into the food.</p><p>“What about you?” Miller asks as Jackson sits down next to him before the fire. The doctor has no bowl of his own.</p><p>“I already ate.”</p><p>Miller takes another bite. “Damn, this is good. Thank you.”</p><p>“My pleasure. I’m just glad I can help.”</p><p>Miller nods again, and once more takes stock of the doctor. He’s not sure how to describe the look he’s giving him other than to say that it’s full of caring concern. And a touch of eagerness. Miller figures this guy was just born to be a healer since he seems to genuinely like taking care of him. Miller thinks back to the last medical professional he interacted with, and he can’t imagine that man bringing him stew or looking even mildly eager to help with anything.</p><p>“What brings you all the way out here?” Miller asks. “Are you Native Alaskan?”</p><p>“No. My parents were originally from India but they moved to Canada before I was born.” Jackson gazes at the fireplace as he speaks. Another loud burst of wind howls, and more snow continues to pelt the window. “I just needed….to get away after some things…happened. So I found the most remote place that I could, soon as I finished med school. They needed a doctor here. They can’t pay much of anything but they gave me this cabin and they bring me food. In return I treat their injuries and illnesses. There’s a shellfish processing plant in the nearest city. Half the people who live here go work there – they ride there together in a truck. Lots of injuries though. They don’t take very good care of their workers,” he says, shaking his head.</p><p>Miller wonders what “things” drove Jackson to live in such a remote place as this. He himself certainly understands the need to get away. Wanting to fight Hitler wasn’t the only thing that led Miller to enlist – he also needed to just take off after his bitter and messy breakup with Bryan.</p><p>“That’s too bad,” Miller says about the processing plant. He then scrunches his brow. “You said your parents were from India. But your name is….Jackson?” He wants to add that the last name ‘Jackson’ was very popular in his own hometown but that this man certainly doesn’t resemble any of the Jacksons he knew growing up!</p><p>Jackson laughs. “Well, my name used to be Ersheen Jagadish. But that didn’t fly in Calgary. My parents decided to just change all of our names, so now mine is Eric Jackson.” He shrugs. “It’s easier that way. A name is just a name.”</p><p>Miller looks down at his tea. “Yeah. But it sucks to have to change it. I know a thing or two about having to adapt to the whims of….the majority.”</p><p>“Is it….is it true that the American army is segregated? The Canadian army isn’t.”</p><p>Miller is happy that Jackson brought the subject up. Maybe it’s because Miller’s had to keep his mouth shut extra tight since he joined the armed forces or maybe it’s just because he is now finally able to let his guard down. But he shares with Jackson exactly how he feels about the fact that he’s fighting against fascism – while his own army and his own country practice racial segregation. He shares his battles against racism, the experiences he and his family and friends have dealt with their entire lives. Jackson chimes in with his own experiences too, though he acknowledges that their situations are different.</p><p>“Maybe it will all change when the war’s over,” Miller says. “I hope it will.”</p><p>“I hope it will too. I’m certainly no expert on segregation policies in the US, but it seems they can’t stay the way they are,” Jackson says passionately. “At least that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about too much here. Everyone in this town has brown skin.”</p><p>They go on to talk more about the town. Remote as it is, it has its charms and Jackson seems to love it. He talks about teaching biology to the youngsters in the town’s one school, about spotting rare wildlife, about long Sunday afternoons listening to the town’s elders tell endless stories. Toothless old women who hadn’t seen a doctor for decades hugging him and bringing him meals for “doing nothing more than treating an old injury or giving them a painkiller.”</p><p>“Sounds like you’re born to heal,” Miller murmurs. “I certainly feel a million times better since I stepped through that door. You took me in, sheltered me from the cold, treated my injuries, fed me….I’m the luckiest soldier alive.”</p><p>“Like I said. My pleasure.”</p><p>Miller looks at Jackson as the doctor speaks the words. He has a hunch. He’s had it almost since he stepped through this door.</p><p>He thinks that Jackson is like him.</p><p>There’s a word for it. <em>Queer</em>.</p><p>Miller guesses it from the way Jackson looks at him, the way he moves. And there have been other hints too, like the way he has avoided mentioning any love interest or the way he’s been vague about what exactly he was fleeing to go live here. And the only “bachelor pads” Miller has ever seen that are this neat and tidy are those that belong to men like himself. And yeah, Miller knows that he might be wrong and that some of these things are just stereotypes. But he’s never been wrong before when it has come to making this sort of guess. He sniffs, musing that “queers” just seem to know how to spot each other.</p><p>And there’s also the fact that Jackson is having an effect on Miller, a heady, wondrous effect. Maybe it’s because Miller has always wished for someone to be like this with him, to take care of him, to be gentle with him. Bryan wasn’t a bad guy but he wasn’t a nurturer either. But just looking at Jackson is doing things to him. Those caring eyes. The gentle but firm way his hands have touched him. The way Jackson leans forward when Miller speaks as if he wants to hear every word.</p><p>So Miller decides to drop a hint. Just a little something so he can gage Jackson’s reaction. Miller leans towards Jackson and places a hand on his thigh. “I mean it. I’m really lucky.” His voice is deep and perhaps a bit throaty. Miller knows he has his flaws but he also knows he’s an attractive man. He keeps his hand on Jackson’s thigh a few beats longer than normally acceptable.</p><p>Jackson’s response leaves no doubt in Miler’s mind. He blushes slightly but doesn’t pull away or break eye contact. In fact he leans just a bit closer to Miller.</p><p>“Would you,” Jackson begins softly, “tell me a bit about yourself? Your life before you joined the army?”</p><p>Miller starts to do so. But there’s one problem now. He’s exhausted. He starts to talk, about how his grandparents moved from the South to the big Midwestern city, about how he was set to work at the factory but then he realized he needed to enlist, to fight evil. He even mentions his “special friend” Bryan while making it clear that they aren’t friends any longer. And yet as Miller talks, his body starts to take over. He’s been walking for days. He’s hardly slept. As much as he wants to keep talking and interacting with Jackson, he is bone tired. It’s almost becoming difficult to keep his eyes open. He lets out one big yawn and then another. Before he knows it, the doctor is gently ushering him to the bed and he is out like a light.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Miller wakes up some time later and takes stock. He feels so much better. There are some residual pains in his feet but all the aches and coldness are gone. He’s pleasantly warm under the blankets. Blinking a few times and turning over, he sees that it is still dark out; he knows all too well how long the nights are here. The fireplace still glows but it’s dimmer now. Wind and snow are still bombarding the window – glancing through the windowpanes, Miller sees nothing but a sea of white.</p><p>The doctor is next to him. Certainly no reasonable person would expect Jackson to sleep on the hard floor, and Miller is glad that Jackson decided to share the bed. He’s not sure if Jackson is asleep right now or not. His breathing seems fairly even. In any case, Miller decides that a trip to the washroom is in order. He gets off the bed and hobbles the five steps to the bathroom. On his way back, he stokes the fireplace a bit, coaxing it. He’s glad when, moments later, he’s back under the warm blankets and enjoying the soft bed.</p><p>“How are you feeling?”</p><p>The doctor whispers the question. Miller turns to face him.</p><p>“Good. Just a little sore. But really good. How are you?” Miller asks.</p><p>“Good. Snowstorm’s still going on.”</p><p>“Yeah. There’s no way I would’ve survived out there. Can’t tell you how good it feels to be in here.”</p><p>Jackson replies, using words that Miller could only describe as endearingly awkward. “It feels good to have you here. I, uh, I mean I’m so glad you made it. To here.”</p><p>Miller then makes a decision. He trusts his instincts and they’ve all been telling him one thing. And if he’s wrong, he knows he can find a way out of it. Blame it on sleep deprivation or make a remark about something strange being in the painkillers or just apologize profusely.</p><p>He shifts a bit closer to Jackson and reaches for the other man. “Okay if I kiss you?” he murmurs.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jackson murmurs back.</p><p>And from there, it’s all warm kisses and touches.</p><p>***</p><p>When Miller wakes up next, the cottage is illuminated with sunlight and smells of cinnamon and apples are wafting from the kitchen nook. He rubs his eyes and sees Jackson lifting the teakettle from the stovetop, apparently right before it would’ve begun to whistle. He smiles, telling himself that he’s got to ask the doctor if he has any coffee. He then shakes his head knowing that Jackson has been beyond generous and Miller is not serious about asking for anything more. In fact if he feels well enough, he will offer to help shovel snow though he suspects the doctor will refuse his help.</p><p>The two men are snowed in for the day. It soon becomes clear that they can’t go anywhere until the snow melts. If they struggled enough they could probably wedge open the door or the window but then they’d just face a pile of snow as tall as their heads.</p><p>The day passes all too quickly and Miller is never bored. Jackson checks his injured feet and re-bandages them. He then heads into his basement and brings out a few games – a deck of cards and something Miller has never played called backgammon. Jackson also brings a phonograph up from the basement and puts a few records on, though Miller makes a face at some of the selections and tells him he needs to get a few jazz albums. Jackson acknowledges that he’s never listened to much jazz but promises to track down some jazz records.</p><p>They talk more, sharing almost everything about their backstories and their life histories. They talk about what they want in their futures. Miller asks Jackson about the stack of books on the end table and they learn that they both loved The Hobbit. And Miller’s suspicions about Jackson’s fastidiousness are confirmed; the doctor spends time cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom, sweeping the floor - and ordering Miller to stay off his feet as much as possible. Miller asks about exercising, and Jackson reveals that he has a weight bench and weights in his basement but again he insists that Miller rest. For lunch they have sandwiches consisting of bread and jerky, and dinner is more of the delicious stew.</p><p>They also spend a good portion of the day in bed together. Last night was good and their bodies fit together well despite the initial awkwardness. It’s even better today and they really find their rhythm.</p><p>The next day the temperature rises and snow melts. Two neighbors shovel their way over, one who has a sick child and one – the town’s unofficial mayor – comes with the radio. Private Miller makes contact with his unit and is told to report to the nearest city, the one with the shellfish processing plant, in three days so the army can send him back on his way. Jackson speaks with them and gets them to agree upon five days rather than three, giving Miller’s injuries more time to heal.</p><p>***</p><p>Miller tries to be blasé and calm about it. These past few days with Jackson have been a sort of paradise. No drill sergeants, no noisy barracks, just the warm and loving arms of this remarkable man. Sitting together by the fireplace, talking about books, eating together (and, he would hasten to add, having sex with him) - it has all been like a dream. But Miller tells himself over and over that he always knew it would end, that this was never going to be more than temporary, and that he couldn’t stay here in this cozy cabin with Jackson for the rest of his life.</p><p>Though part of him wants to.</p><p>But no. His duty is to his country and his military. He needs to do his part to take down Hitler.</p><p>“The truck leaves first thing tomorrow. Six AM,” Jackson says the night before.</p><p>“I’ll be ready.” Miller keeps his voice steady. He sorts through his backpack making sure it has everything.</p><p>Jackson putters about the kitchen. “I’m trying to think of something you can easily take with you to eat. We finished off the last of the apples. There’s some jerky left and a few tins of sardines.”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Miller forces a laugh. “The army does feed me.”</p><p>“I know. But it’s a long drive to the city.” Jackson pauses. “The townspeople on the truck with you will be really curious about you. We don’t get too many visitors.”</p><p>“Good. It’ll make the time pass faster.” Miller wishes his heart wasn’t sinking, wishes the overwhelming feeling of sorrow would go away. He is really, really going to miss Jackson. Does he say it? Should he speak up? Or is he being silly? They exchanged some deep, sweet kisses and had lots of good sex. This probably means nothing more to Jackson than that. Jackson surely knew from the get-go that there couldn’t be anything more than that. If Jackson even wanted a partner then he probably wouldn’t live all the way out here, Miller tells himself.</p><p>“Here,” Jackson says, lifting up a book from the end table and reaching for a piece of paper. He jots a note on it. “My name and this town’s name. That’s all you need to…send me a letter or a postcard. We could keep in touch.”</p><p>Miller’s sorrow is still there but Jackson’s words have lessened it a bit. “Let me write down my service number and my unit’s info,” he says, gesturing for Jackson to hand him the pen and a new sheet of paper. “We love to get letters. I’ve heard it can take a while for them to arrive but…”</p><p>“I’ll send them. It takes forever for mail to arrive here too, but eventually it does.”</p><p>“And here,” Miller says, still writing. “My parents’ address and phone number. Never hurts for you to have that too.”</p><p>“Thank you. There is a phone in the city – sometimes I head over and use it to call my parents,” Jackson says. He glances at the paper. “David and Mary Miller,” he reads, and then exhales and shakes his head. “My parents are David and Mary too. Well…they used to be Damji and Maanika but they changed it to David and Mary.”</p><p>“That’s wild!” Miller laughs. “Our parents have the same first names.”</p><p>Every night he’s been here, Miller has slept like a rock. But not this final night. He’s glad that he and Jackson have exchanged their contact information – a hint that this has meant as much to Jackson as it meant to himself. But he also knows that odds are they will never see each other again, ever. Hell, Miller will be lucky if he’s not blown to pieces on the battlefield.</p><p>Of all the men on the planet, why did you have to fall for one who lives in the middle of nowhere?</p><p>The sorrowful night eventually passes, Miller pulls on his boots when the truck honks its horn, and he and Jackson bid their final farewell with a kiss. Miller opens the cottage’s door and steps out into the freezing cold. Once he has boarded the truck, he turns around to take one last glance at the cottage and at Jackson but it’s too dark to see anything.</p><p>A couple hours later, Miller rummages around inside his backpack for that jerky that Jackson packed the night before. His hand touches something hard. It is Jackson’s copy of The Hobbit. Opening it up and peering at it, he sees some writing on inside of the front cover.</p><p>
  <em>Maybe someday we can sit by the fireplace and talk about books again. I’ll have a few jazz albums by then too.</em>
</p><p>Miller swallows a lump in his throat.</p><p>***</p><p>It’s been six months since the young soldier had to leave.</p><p>Jackson tries to get his mind back the way it was before. He reminds himself that he likes solitude. Reminds himself that it’s better to stay here, treating the sick and injured and spending quiet evenings alone, reading and drinking tea by the fireplace. Two men don’t get to settle down and live like a normal couple. It will never happen, it can never happen. A life of service is satisfying in and of itself, and provides a handy excuse to the townspeople as to why the doctor is still a bachelor.</p><p>And yet. Didn’t fate bring Miller literally to his doorstep? Can he really ignore that sign?</p><p>Jackson has written three letters to Miller but no replies have arrived. Perhaps his letters are not reaching Miller, or perhaps Miller’s replies just aren’t making it here. Or maybe Miller has simply moved on. He’s in the army, for goodness’ sake, surrounded by young men. Maybe he’s found a beau. Jackson would prefer that to the other, inevitable thought. There is a war going on. Soldiers die every day. True, the Allies seem to be winning but Miller’s life is still on the line.</p><p>As Jackson had predicted, the townspeople talk and ask about Miller often. They get so few visitors. Apparently during the truck ride to the city, Miller had passed around a pack of chewing gum to share and it was quite the hit.</p><p>Jackson debates the idea of riding the truck one morning to the city and calling Miller’s parents. But they have no idea who he is, and they might not appreciate some stranger calling about their son. At best they would be confused and at worst they might be panicked.</p><p>And then a week later, one of the townspeople knocks on Jackson’s door. “There was a long-distance phone call for you at the processing plant. A woman in Detroit named Mary Miller. She wants you to call her back.” He hands Jackson a slip of paper with her number.</p><p>He doesn’t need the number though; he has memorized it. “Did she say anything else?” Jackson asks.</p><p>“No. I’d tease you asking if you finally had a lady friend, but she sounded old enough to be your mom. Hey, Doctor…have dinner with us tonight. You’re too thin. I thought you loved my wife’s stew but you don’t look like you’ve been eating much.”</p><p>“Okay. I’ll join you.” Jackson knows he will need every distraction he can find until that truck leaves for the city tomorrow morning and he can call Miller’s mother back.</p><p>***</p><p>Miller is lying in a hospital bed – or what passes for a hospital and what passes for a bed - somewhere outside of a Nazi-occupied French city. At least, last he heard it was occupied by the Nazis but he thinks it’s possible that the Allies have been successful in driving the Nazis out. He doesn’t know and his head throbs with pain anyway.</p><p>He glances at the tray next to his bed.</p><p>Someone propped up the letter from Jackson. It’s been 10 months since he left the doctor’s cottage. Three months ago, he received a letter from him – and based on that letter’s date, the doctor had written it ages ago. Judging from the letter’s contents, it didn’t seem like Jackson had received any of his letters.</p><p>Though it hurts to move, Miller touches his fingers to the letter. He’s already read every word dozens of times and he’s glad that one of his friends thought to pull it out so he could look at it. Jackson had wisely signed his letter with just “J”. He was very careful with his wording but still – better to not advertise the fact that it’s from a man. Jackson’s neat printing could potentially pass for a woman’s hand.</p><p>He’s on a different continent from Jackson, so far away. Any time Miller has needed to feel comfort and warmth – and there have been many - he has thought back to his time inside Jackson’s cabin. During all the stress and fear, during the grueling days of a soldier’s life, Miller has had only to close his eyes and imagine himself back there, sitting by the fireplace with Jackson. Or under the warm blankets of their bed as the snowstorm muffled all sounds from the outside world. Once Miller got injured, he used this method even more often, to soothe himself and make himself feel calm.</p><p>Miller knows he needs to try to ask the next doctor or nurse he sees for more information about his prognosis. Segregated medical facilities don’t lead to the best care though, and even in this state, Miller can clearly tell that they don’t have enough medical staff treating either himself or his fellow Black soldiers.</p><p>He drifts back to sleep.</p><p>“Hey, there’s some Hindu doctor here to treat you!” Someone speaks the words.</p><p>“All the way from India?” Another person asks.</p><p>“They’re fighting this war too,” the first person answers. “I heard there’s a million of ‘em fighting in Europe.”</p><p>Miller tries to make sense of the words he hears. He opens his eyes and tries to focus. His mouth is dry but his head starts to feel clear and he focuses. And then he can’t believe what he sees in front of him.</p><p>“J – Jackson?”</p><p>“I’m here. I had to see how you were getting on.”</p><p>Miller feels Jackson’s hand on his arm but he still can’t believe this. He struggles to ask Jackson how he got here, and Jackson’s answer includes the townspeople giving him money, a bank giving him a loan, and the fact that being a doctor opens some doors for him – literally, when it came to him being able to enter this medical area -- even though he’s not part of the armed forces. Miller shakes his head. “You moved heaven and earth to get here.” He grasps Jackson’s hand though he knows his grasp is weak.</p><p>“More or less.” Jackson takes a breath. “I looked at your chart. I think you’re going to be okay. Might be a while before you feel back to normal, but you should be fine. I’m going to try to get access to a telephone or telegraph so I can update your parents. But they promised to put me to work here, and I really need to get to that too. The wounded here need a lot of help.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Miller looks down. “They treat Nazi prisoners better than they treat us.”</p><p>Jackson squeezes his arm. “I’ll do my part to help,” he says passionately.</p><p>“I still think I’m just dreaming or maybe hallucinating. You can’t really be here,” Miller murmurs.</p><p>“I’m here. I’m really here.”</p><p>***</p><p>A few days later, the two men are talking. Miller has thrived under Jackson’s care and is finally well enough to take a few steps. With Jackson helping to support his weight, they finish pacing the ward a bit and Miller is now sitting back on the bed.</p><p>Miller still is awestruck at the fact that Jackson managed to find a way to travel all this way. He looks around and sees that, for once, they appear to be alone.</p><p>“You know, I could go work at that shellfish plant. When the war is over.”</p><p>Miller knows it’s a bold declaration. But on the other hand, he’s certain that he and Jackson are on the same page now even though they’ve not discussed it. The fact that Jackson found a way to get here is a complete statement in and of itself. The doctor didn’t need to say anything else.</p><p>“Or we could….go somewhere entirely new,” Jackson offers. “I’ve been corresponding with three hospitals in San Francisco - all of them look promising and say they need doctors. San Francisco won’t be a utopia but it might be…well, it might be a place where the two of us can make a go of it.”</p><p>Miller can’t believe his ears. “But….you’d leave your cottage? For a huge, noisy city? And….<em>San Francisco?</em> I’m a Black guy from Detroit. The-the idea of moving there feels about as realistic as moving to the moon!”</p><p>And yet Jackson is surprisingly insistent, and as the doctor goes on to make his case, Miller realizes he just needed to be convinced. San Francisco is known as a haven for bachelors, as Jackson describes it. As a doctor, Jackson can get work almost anywhere. And Miller will be a veteran – that might open a door or two. The G.I. Bill passed last year, so maybe Miller can go to college on the G.I. Bill. Racism runs rampant in California just like anywhere else, but there are some signs that it might be less virulent in San Francisco than other places. It might be one of their better options even though they won’t be riding out any snowstorms around a fireplace there.</p><p>Miller laughs and shakes his head. “Okay. You convinced me. We crossed the world to find each other. Might as well make a go of this.”</p><p>Jackson smiles and takes the hand that Miller holds out.</p><p>
  <strong>THE END</strong>
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  <em>Author’s Notes: </em>
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  <em>Thank you for reading this. I hope I did okay when I touched on race and racism. I didn’t think that I could set this story during World War II – or really any time before The 100 – and just ignore racism and the experiences that these two characters would have had. Discrimination and segregation against Black soldiers during WWII is well-documented.</em>
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  <em>On a happier note, the story title comes from a Duran Duran song called “Northern Lights”. It’s good – find it on Youtube! (I also have to admit that this won’t be my last fic named after a Duran Duran song, so I guess I just fancy their music).</em>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
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    <strong>Summary: World War II-era AU, with Miller an injured soldier and Jackson a doctor in a remote village.</strong>
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    <strong>Note: I’m posting this fic with and without a sex scene. This chapter – chapter two – has the entire fic including the sex scene.</strong>
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</p><p>***</p><p>Nathan Miller, the young army Private, knows he is done for.</p><p>He’s been separated from his unit for more than a day now. He has walked and walked over barren, snowy, desolate terrain. The sky is heavily pregnant, and it’s clear that the snowstorm is going to begin any minute. He is alone.</p><p>Miller glances at his compass again. His radio is still dead, but his last communication with base told him the exact coordinates of the town and that there’s reportedly a “country doctor” who lives there.</p><p>Which is good because Private Miller has been walking endlessly. He can’t stop to take his boots off – it’s too cold, and if he stops he’ll never start again – but he imagines that the skin on his soles is shredded and his feet must resemble raw meet. From the way it feels he can imagine that every step is aggravating the shredded flesh; every step stings. The relentless wind whips against his face. The sun is setting rapidly and the battery inside his flashlight has died. Pretty soon he won’t be able to see two steps in front of himself.</p><p>He holds firm to his last communicate with base. A town. A doctor. But it’s so remote, so desolate here. How can there really be a town here? And even if there is, how is he going to reach it before the snowstorm hits or before his legs and feet give out?</p><p>And then he sees something in the distance, something standing out from the endless sea of snow. A light. A tiny light. And surrounding that, a few dots of dark masses. Could they be houses? Miller is filled with a new burst of energy and he compels his body to move faster. And then he sees something else - a flare shoots up into the sky. His base told him it would telegraph the town and tell them to be ready to treat their soldier. Is the flare for him, to help guide him?</p><p>If that’s the case, they are not a moment too soon. The sun has taken its final bow for the evening, and the flecks of snow are rapidly turning into large gobs of heavy, heavy snow. Even in the last minute or two, the denseness and speed of the snow has picked up. This snowstorm is going to hit full on any second now. Miller nearly jogs towards the flare, ignoring the burning in his feet. He keeps moving, and gradually the light he’d seen in the distance comes into focus as does the dark mass behind it. It is a cottage. A tiny one. Miller keeps moving his sore body, and soon he is able to make out a door opening and a man ushering him inside.</p><p>“I’m Dr. Jackson. They told me you were coming. Let me help you.”</p><p>***</p><p>Moments later, Miller’s aching body is finally starting to feel relief.</p><p>The doctor has helped him to a chair next to a roaring fireplace, and he has eased his boots and socks off. The doctor is bathing his feet in some sort of solution.</p><p>“I’m sorry. They’re gross,” Miller sighs.</p><p>“I’m a doctor. I’ve seen it all,” Jackson responds. He is focused on his task, tending Miller’s battered feet.</p><p>The rest of Miller’s body is slowly starting to thaw. He’s clutching the warm mug that Jackson handed him. It’s some sort of herbal tea. Miller would have preferred coffee, but he’s not about to complain. The drink is warming his insides, as the fireplace warms him from the outside. His fingers are no longer numb and his ears are no longer screaming from the cold. Whatever the doctor is doing seems to be helping his feet, though it stings a bit too. Some sort of antiseptic, Miller figures.</p><p>Now that he’s comfortable and safe, Miller takes a second to look around. He’s inside a one-room cabin. It’s sparse, but immaculate – not a spec of dust or debris anywhere. One corner contains a kitchen – nothing more than a nook with a stove, a sink, a countertop with a cutting board, a shelf with a few supplies, and a table and chair. The rest of the cottage’s contents appear to be a large bed, a door which Miller assumes leads to a washroom, and the heavenly fireplace. Humble as the place is, it’s warm and cozy too. There’s a rug on the floor, in earthy tones of red and brown. A few decorative pieces either sit on the mantle above the fireplace or hang on the walls – a vase, a painting depicting autumn leaves, a tapestry above the bed. Miller can now also see a small end table next to the bed, with several books stacked atop it. There’s a lantern on the table as well, which provides the cabin’s only light, along with the fireplace’s glow.</p><p>“Are you an artist too?” Miller asks, taking another glance at the tapestry. It seems to match the rug with its earthy shades.</p><p>“No,” Jackson says, smiling. “I get a lot of gifts from patients. Including the tapestry. It’s nice being a doctor where everyone knows you.”</p><p>The wind picks up outside, howling loudly. Looking out the cabin’s one window, Miller can see the snow just streaming down in thick sheets, a relentless assault. He once again is glad to be indoors.</p><p>“You got here just in the nick of time,” Jackson says, also turning to look out the window. Miller’s thoughts had been along the same lines.</p><p>“I’m very lucky.” He then adds, “And – thank you. You took me right in.”</p><p>“Of course. You’re a soldier. If we’re going to beat those Nazis, we need each and every soldier like you. Thank you for your service.”</p><p>“I wish I hadn’t gotten separated from my unit.”</p><p>Jackson nods, leans back a bit, and looks at his work. “There,” he says. “I’m going to bandage your feet up now and give you something for the pain. You said you don’t have any other injuries?”</p><p>“No. Hey – how’d you know I was coming? I don’t see a radio in here.”</p><p>“There’s one radio in town. The person who owns it told me you were coming and gave me a flare gun – and then ran back to his own cottage before the snowstorm hit. I had to just guess at when to send it.” Jackson gets to work on bandaging Miller’s feet. “I feel bad that I haven’t offered you any food yet.”</p><p>“Well,” Miller smiles, “one crisis at a time. There were the bloody feet, the entire body that needed to be thawed out, my dry mouth – which this tea is helping with.”</p><p>“Food is next on the list then,” Jackson acknowledges with a nod.</p><p>Miller cranes his head to look at the kitchen. “I don’t know how long we’ll be snowed in here. Do you have enough food to feed two mouths?”</p><p>“More than enough,” Jackson says. “The townspeople bring me so much food I never have to do anything in the kitchen but heat stuff up. I have bread and soups and stews….uh let me think what else. Oatmeal and jerky. And a few apples too. Sardines in a tin if we get desperate. I wish I had more vegetables but they’re hard to come by here, this deep into winter. I still have some canned carrots, peas, and corn though.” He smiles, “So, no need to worry. The stew is especially good. Soon as I’m done here, I’ll heat some up for you.”</p><p>“Wow, thank you. If my buddies could see me now they’d be so jealous at the royal treatment I’m getting! The Army doctors don’t fuss over you like this.”</p><p>Miller and Jackson share a laugh over that. Jackson finishes up his bandaging. “Done,” he says. “Let me get to that stew.”</p><p>“Hey,” Miller says, “you have a bathroom?”</p><p>“It’s right through that door,” Jackson gestures. “I don’t want you putting weight on those feet unless you have to though.”</p><p>“I know. But I need it – and also, I stink since I’ve been wandering for so long. I’d love to wash up.” He then tries to joke by adding, “Look, there’s an advantage to the fact that your cottage is so tiny. It can’t be more than four steps to get to the bathroom.”</p><p>“Five!” Jackson says, perhaps trying to mirror Miller’s attempts at humor. Miller notes that Jackson seems almost…too eager for Miller to find him funny.</p><p>“I can make it,” Miller insists, reaching down for his backpack and rising slowly to his feet.</p><p>“There are clean towels inside the washroom.”</p><p>Once he’s had a chance to wash up and change into his cleaner set of clothing, Miller feels even better. The smell of the stew heating on the stove is enticing and his stomach starts to dance happily in anticipation. His MREs gave him enough energy to keep moving but he suspects this stew will be so much tastier than the crackers and peanut butter he’s been subsisting on. Miller then hobbles the five paces back to his seat by the fireplace.</p><p>“Nice,” Miller sighs happily as he relaxes into the chair. Once again his limbs just start to unwind in front of the fireplace, the warmth helping him to feel as if the stress is melting away. Both his brain and his body are starting to truly accept the fact that he’s out of danger now – he’s no longer lost in the dark, outdoors with a snowstorm on its way. The wind and snow are doing their worst outside, but he’s safe inside here.</p><p>With this very kind doctor.</p><p>Very handsome doctor too, Miller notes.</p><p>He glances at Jackson. The doctor stirs the stew, and then reaches for a loaf of bread on the counter and slices it. He then takes hold of a small bottle on the shelf, and hands Miller a pill. “Pain reliever,” he says. He looks at Miller’s mug. “More tea?”</p><p>“Yes, please.”</p><p>Moments later, Jackson is dragging the cottage’s small table over to Miller’s side, and placing a bowl of stew and piece of bread on them. Miller eagerly digs into the food.</p><p>“What about you?” Miller asks as Jackson sits down next to him before the fire. The doctor has no bowl of his own.</p><p>“I already ate.”</p><p>Miller takes another bite. “Damn, this is good. Thank you.”</p><p>“My pleasure. I’m just glad I can help.”</p><p>Miller nods again, and once more takes stock of the doctor. He’s not sure how to describe the look he’s giving him other than to say that it’s full of caring concern. And a touch of eagerness. Miller figures this guy was just born to be a healer since he seems to genuinely like taking care of him. Miller thinks back to the last medical professional he interacted with, and he can’t imagine that man bringing him stew or looking even mildly eager to help with anything.</p><p>“What brings you all the way out here?” Miller asks. “Are you Native Alaskan?”</p><p>“No. My parents were originally from India but they moved to Canada before I was born.” Jackson gazes at the fireplace as he speaks. Another loud burst of wind howls, and more snow continues to pelt the window. “I just needed….to get away after some things…happened. So I found the most remote place that I could, soon as I finished med school. They needed a doctor here. They can’t pay much of anything but they gave me this cabin and they bring me food. In return I treat their injuries and illnesses. There’s a shellfish processing plant in the nearest city. Half the people who live here go work there – they ride there together in a truck. Lots of injuries though. They don’t take very good care of their workers,” he says, shaking his head.</p><p>Miller wonders what “things” drove Jackson to live in such a remote place as this. He himself certainly understands the need to get away. Wanting to fight Hitler wasn’t the only thing that led Miller to enlist – he also needed to just take off after his bitter and messy breakup with Bryan.</p><p>“That’s too bad,” Miller says about the processing plant. He then scrunches his brow. “You said your parents were from India. But your name is….Jackson?” He wants to add that the last name ‘Jackson’ was very popular in his own hometown but that this man certainly doesn’t resemble any of the Jacksons he knew growing up!</p><p>Jackson laughs. “Well, my name used to be Ersheen Jagadish. But that didn’t fly in Calgary. My parents decided to just change all of our names, so now mine is Eric Jackson.” He shrugs. “It’s easier that way. A name is just a name.”</p><p>Miller looks down at his tea. “Yeah. But it sucks to have to change it. I know a thing or two about having to adapt to the whims of….the majority.”</p><p>“Is it….is it true that the American army is segregated? The Canadian army isn’t.”</p><p>Miller is happy that Jackson brought the subject up. Maybe it’s because Miller’s had to keep his mouth shut extra tight since he joined the armed forces or maybe it’s just because he is now finally able to let his guard down. But he shares with Jackson exactly how he feels about the fact that he’s fighting against fascism – while his own army and his own country practice racial segregation. He shares his battles against racism, the experiences he and his family and friends have dealt with their entire lives. Jackson chimes in with his own experiences too, though he acknowledges that their situations are different.</p><p>“Maybe it will all change when the war’s over,” Miller says. “I hope it will.”</p><p>“I hope it will too. I’m certainly no expert on segregation policies in the US, but it seems they can’t stay the way they are,” Jackson says passionately. “At least that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about too much here. Everyone in this town has brown skin.”</p><p>They go on to talk more about the town. Remote as it is, it has its charms and Jackson seems to love it. He talks about teaching biology to the youngsters in the town’s one school, about spotting rare wildlife, about long Sunday afternoons listening to the town’s elders tell endless stories. Toothless old women who hadn’t seen a doctor for decades hugging him and bringing him meals for “doing nothing more than treating an old injury or giving them a painkiller.”</p><p>“Sounds like you’re born to heal,” Miller murmurs. “I certainly feel a million times better since I stepped through that door. You took me in, sheltered me from the cold, treated my injuries, fed me….I’m the luckiest soldier alive.”</p><p>“Like I said. My pleasure.”</p><p>Miller looks at Jackson as the doctor speaks the words. He has a hunch. He’s had it almost since he stepped through this door.</p><p>He thinks that Jackson is like him.</p><p>There’s a word for it. <em>Queer</em>.</p><p>Miller guesses it from the way Jackson looks at him, the way he moves. And there have been other hints too, like the way he has avoided mentioning any love interest or the way he’s been vague about what exactly he was fleeing to go live here. And the only “bachelor pads” Miller has ever seen that are this neat and tidy are those that belong to men like himself. And yeah, Miller knows that he might be wrong and that some of these things are just stereotypes. But he’s never been wrong before when it has come to making this sort of guess. He sniffs, musing that “queers” just seem to know how to spot each other.</p><p>And there’s also the fact that Jackson is having an effect on Miller, a heady, wondrous effect. Maybe it’s because Miller has always wished for someone to be like this with him, to take care of him, to be gentle with him. Bryan wasn’t a bad guy but he wasn’t a nurturer either. But just looking at Jackson is doing things to him. Those caring eyes. The gentle but firm way his hands have touched him. The way Jackson leans forward when Miller speaks as if he wants to hear every word.</p><p>So Miller decides to drop a hint. Just a little something so he can gage Jackson’s reaction. Miller leans towards Jackson and places a hand on his thigh. “I mean it. I’m really lucky.” His voice is deep and perhaps a bit throaty. Miller knows he has his flaws but he also knows he’s an attractive man. He keeps his hand on Jackson’s thigh a few beats longer than normally acceptable.</p><p>Jackson’s response leaves no doubt in Miler’s mind. He blushes slightly but doesn’t pull away or break eye contact. In fact he leans just a bit closer to Miller.</p><p>“Would you,” Jackson begins softly, “tell me a bit about yourself? Your life before you joined the army?”</p><p>Miller starts to do so. But there’s one problem now. He’s exhausted. He starts to talk, about how his grandparents moved from the South to the big Midwestern city, about how he was set to work at the factory but then he realized he needed to enlist, to fight evil. He even mentions his “special friend” Bryan while making it clear that they aren’t friends any longer. And yet as Miller talks, his body starts to take over. He’s been walking for days. He’s hardly slept. As much as he wants to keep talking and interacting with Jackson, he is bone tired. It’s almost becoming difficult to keep his eyes open. He lets out one big yawn and then another. Before he knows it, the doctor is gently ushering him to the bed and he is out like a light.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Miller wakes up some time later and takes stock. He feels so much better. There are some residual pains in his feet but all the aches and coldness are gone. He’s pleasantly warm under the blankets. Blinking a few times and turning over, he sees that it is still dark out; he knows all too well how long the nights are here. The fireplace still glows but it’s dimmer now. Wind and snow are still bombarding the window – glancing through the windowpanes, Miller sees nothing but a sea of white.</p><p>The doctor is next to him. Certainly no reasonable person would expect Jackson to sleep on the hard floor, and Miller is glad that Jackson decided to share the bed. He’s not sure if Jackson is asleep right now or not. His breathing seems fairly even. In any case, Miller decides that a trip to the washroom is in order. He gets off the bed and hobbles the five steps to the bathroom. On his way back, he stokes the fireplace a bit, coaxing it. He’s glad when, moments later, he’s back under the warm blankets and enjoying the soft bed.</p><p>“How are you feeling?”</p><p>The doctor whispers the question. Miller turns to face him.</p><p>“Good. Just a little sore. But really good. How are you?” Miller asks.</p><p>“Good. Snowstorm’s still going on.”</p><p>“Yeah. There’s no way I would’ve survived out there. Can’t tell you how good it feels to be in here.”</p><p>Jackson replies, using words that Miller could only describe as endearingly awkward. “It feels good to have you here. I, uh, I mean I’m so glad you made it. To here.”</p><p>Miller then makes a decision. He trusts his instincts and they’ve all been telling him one thing. And if he’s wrong, he knows he can find a way out of it. Blame it on sleep deprivation or make a remark about something strange being in the painkillers or just apologize profusely.</p><p>He shifts a bit closer to Jackson and reaches for the other man. “Okay if I kiss you?” he murmurs.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jackson murmurs back.</p><p>And from there, it’s all warm kisses and aching arousal. Jackson seems happy to respond to all of Miller’s touches and kisses. His lips are warm and inviting against Miller’s own. It’s a thrill when his tongue gently enters the doctor’s mouth. Once more, as clothing starts to be shed, Miller again asks if this is okay and Jackson says it definitely is. Miller soon then moves downwards, happily kissing and licking Jackson’s neck, shoulders, and chest. His arms look to be surprisingly strong, but then Miller notes that perhaps doctors have to lift and move patients and equipment. And then he abandons rational thought as he continues to move lower and takes Jackson’s hardness into his own mouth. The doctor seems to be enjoying it, seems to be letting his moans and groans escape unabashedly. Miller loves every moment of it. It increases his own arousal, and it’s also just nice to do something good for this selfless doctor.</p><p>Miller doesn’t expect him to reciprocate but Jackson insists, so he lets him. And then it’s good to just lie on his back and let Jackson do it, let him put his lips and tongue on his cock which has been hard since almost the first kiss. Jackson is skilled – he has clearly done this before. If they ever are lucky enough to do this again, and Miller sure hopes they will be, Miller will gently coach Jackson that he doesn’t have to go right for the cock, that he can take his time and kiss him some more. Maybe his past lover or lovers were more of the ‘get down to business’ type and not the romantic type. Maybe Jackson thinks this is what is expected. But nonetheless, despite there not being as many kisses as Miller would like, it still feels heavenly and he still wishes he could hold off longer on his own climax. But he can’t.</p><p>Afterwards, Jackson lies on his back, and Miller curls around him, half on his side. Miller murmurs some ‘sweet nothings’, another thing he’s always been good at and he occasionally strokes Jackson’s chest or arms. And then they just talk. Jackson reveals that, yes, he fled Calgary for this distant land partly to escape a love affair gone wrong and a world that didn’t accept two men being together. Miller shares more of his own past. His toughest struggle is that he wants his father to accept him the way he is but he doesn’t know if that ever can happen. Jackson says it’s the same with his mother – he’s not close to his dad but he and his mother used to be really close, and he fears that she would never be able to handle the truth about him. They continue to talk for what feels like, to Miller, just a few minutes but in truth is far longer.</p><p>“Hey,” Jackson begins, sounding newly energized. “Any of the men you’ve been with before…did you ever used to…um, I don’t know what the right term is, but did you ever used to….uh, penetrate them?”</p><p>Miller’s not sure whether or not to strike a joking tone, but Jackson seems earnest, so Miller answers straightforwardly. “We called it fucking. I hope you don’t think that’s too crass. And yeah, I used to fuck Bryan. We both enjoyed it.”</p><p>“I have enjoyed it in the past too. I really want you to fuck me.”</p><p>Miller’s ears explode a bit, both at Jackson’s words and the throaty, hungry, serious way he speaks them. Miller almost can’t believe it. This man wants him, wants him inside of him. He’s already hardening again just at the thought.</p><p>“We can arrange that then,” Miller says before reaching down to kiss Jackson again. “We can definitely arrange that.”</p><p>Jackson returns the kiss, and then breaks away to fumble for something under the bed. “Lubricant,” he explains, as he begins to twist off the top of the flask.</p><p>“Nice,” Miller says. “But we don’t need to rush. We can take our time. Maybe you could slowly kiss your way all over my body. Then I’ll be hard and ready for the oil.”</p><p>“Yes. Yes, I should,” Jackson says, sounding eager. In the dim light, Miller can see him smile a bit. “Sorry. The man I was with before didn’t have the word ‘slow’ in his vocabulary. I got used to….to having sex really fast.”</p><p>“Did you like what I did earlier?” Miller asks. “When I took my time kissing you, tonguing you all over? Kissing you not just on your mouth?”</p><p>“Yes. Even…um, just even the words you’re saying…I really like them.”</p><p>“Good. Then we can take it nice and slow. Kiss me again on my lips, and then kiss me all over,” he whispers. “Then I’ll fuck you. I’ll make us both come so hard.”</p><p>Jackson does as Miller requests. And then not long later, Miller has him lie on his side. He spoons behind Jackson and enters him slowly, once he has generously applied the oil. He kisses the back of his neck and nibbles on his ear. He thrusts slowly and gently. He hopes that Jackson enjoys this position as much as he does, with the full body contact, the way their limbs are entwined, the way Jackson’s back is pressed against Miller’s chest.</p><p>“This is nice,” Jackson murmurs. “You are so right to take it slow.”</p><p>“Glad you like it,” Miller replies. He nuzzles the back of Jackson’s head. “I do too.” He starts to move his hips a bit faster. After many long, delicious moments, he says, “I’m getting close. Can we get more oil?”</p><p>The couple disengages, and applies more lubricant. “Can we get into a new position?” Miller asks.</p><p>“Of course,” Jackson answers.</p><p>“You’re easy to please,” Miller says with a delighted smile, still unable to believe his luck.</p><p>“That I am.”</p><p>Miller gently coaxes Jackson onto all fours. He kneels behind him and enters him this way, pausing just for a moment to look, to enjoy the sight, to watch his cock enter Jackson. And then he’s thrusting away with abandon, grasping Jackson’s hips and taking delight in every stroke. The bedsprings creak loudly with Miller’s more and more frantic movements and Jackson moans loudly in approval. Once he has climaxed, he gets Jackson onto his back once again and uses his hands on him. Jackson is already hard and once again moaning as Miller brings him to his own orgasm.</p><p>***</p><p>When Miller wakes up next, the cottage is illuminated with sunlight and smells of cinnamon and apples are wafting from the kitchen nook. He rubs his eyes and sees Jackson lifting the teakettle from the stovetop, apparently right before it would’ve begun to whistle. He smiles, telling himself that he’s got to ask the doctor if he has any coffee. He then shakes his head knowing that Jackson has been beyond generous and Miller is not serious about asking for anything more. In fact if he feels well enough, he will offer to help shovel snow though he suspects the doctor will refuse his help.</p><p>The two men are snowed in for the day. It soon becomes clear that they can’t go anywhere until the snow melts. If they struggled enough they could probably wedge open the door or the window but then they’d just face a pile of snow as tall as their heads.</p><p>The day passes all too quickly and Miller is never bored. Jackson checks his injured feet and re-bandages them. He then heads into his basement and brings out a few games – a deck of cards and something Miller has never played called backgammon. Jackson also brings a phonograph up from the basement and puts a few records on, though Miller makes a face at some of the selections and tells him he needs to get a few jazz albums. Jackson acknowledges that he’s never listened to much jazz but promises to track down some jazz records.</p><p>They talk more, sharing almost everything about their backstories and their life histories. They talk about what they want in their futures. Miller asks Jackson about the stack of books on the end table and they learn that they both loved The Hobbit. And Miller’s suspicions about Jackson’s fastidiousness are confirmed; the doctor spends time cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom, sweeping the floor - and ordering Miller to stay off his feet as much as possible. Miller asks about exercising, and Jackson reveals that he has a weight bench and weights in his basement but again he insists that Miller rest. For lunch they have sandwiches consisting of bread and jerky, and dinner is more of the delicious stew.</p><p>They also spend a good portion of the day in bed together. Last night was good and their bodies fit together well despite the initial awkwardness. It’s even better today and they really find their rhythm.</p><p>The next day the temperature rises and snow melts. Two neighbors shovel their way over, one who has a sick child and one – the town’s unofficial mayor – comes with the radio. Private Miller makes contact with his unit and is told to report to the nearest city, the one with the shellfish processing plant, in three days so the army can send him back on his way. Jackson speaks with them and gets them to agree upon five days rather than three, giving Miller’s injuries more time to heal.</p><p>***</p><p>Miller tries to be blasé and calm about it. These past few days with Jackson have been a sort of paradise. No drill sergeants, no noisy barracks, just the warm and loving arms of this remarkable man. Sitting together by the fireplace, talking about books, eating together (and, he would hasten to add, having sex with him) - it has all been like a dream. But Miller tells himself over and over that he always knew it would end, that this was never going to be more than temporary, and that he couldn’t stay here in this cozy cabin with Jackson for the rest of his life.</p><p>Though part of him wants to.</p><p>But no. His duty is to his country and his military. He needs to do his part to take down Hitler.</p><p>“The truck leaves first thing tomorrow. Six AM,” Jackson says the night before.</p><p>“I’ll be ready.” Miller keeps his voice steady. He sorts through his backpack making sure it has everything.</p><p>Jackson putters about the kitchen. “I’m trying to think of something you can easily take with you to eat. We finished off the last of the apples. There’s some jerky left and a few tins of sardines.”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Miller forces a laugh. “The army does feed me.”</p><p>“I know. But it’s a long drive to the city.” Jackson pauses. “The townspeople on the truck with you will be really curious about you. We don’t get too many visitors.”</p><p>“Good. It’ll make the time pass faster.” Miller wishes his heart wasn’t sinking, wishes the overwhelming feeling of sorrow would go away. He is really, really going to miss Jackson. Does he say it? Should he speak up? Or is he being silly? They exchanged some deep, sweet kisses and had lots of good sex. This probably means nothing more to Jackson than that. Jackson surely knew from the get-go that there couldn’t be anything more than that. If Jackson even wanted a partner then he probably wouldn’t live all the way out here, Miller tells himself.</p><p>“Here,” Jackson says, lifting up a book from the end table and reaching for a piece of paper. He jots a note on it. “My name and this town’s name. That’s all you need to…send me a letter or a postcard. We could keep in touch.”</p><p>Miller’s sorrow is still there but Jackson’s words have lessened it a bit. “Let me write down my service number and my unit’s info,” he says, gesturing for Jackson to hand him the pen and a new sheet of paper. “We love to get letters. I’ve heard it can take a while for them to arrive but…”</p><p>“I’ll send them. It takes forever for mail to arrive here too, but eventually it does.”</p><p>“And here,” Miller says, still writing. “My parents’ address and phone number. Never hurts for you to have that too.”</p><p>“Thank you. There is a phone in the city – sometimes I head over and use it to call my parents,” Jackson says. He glances at the paper. “David and Mary Miller,” he reads, and then exhales and shakes his head. “My parents are David and Mary too. Well…they used to be Damji and Maanika but they changed it to David and Mary.”</p><p>“That’s wild!” Miller laughs. “Our parents have the same first names.”</p><p>Every night he’s been here, Miller has slept like a rock. But not this final night. He’s glad that he and Jackson have exchanged their contact information – a hint that this has meant as much to Jackson as it meant to himself. But he also knows that odds are they will never see each other again, ever. Hell, Miller will be lucky if he’s not blown to pieces on the battlefield.</p><p>Of all the men on the planet, why did you have to fall for one who lives in the middle of nowhere?</p><p>The sorrowful night eventually passes, Miller pulls on his boots when the truck honks its horn, and he and Jackson bid their final farewell with a kiss. Miller opens the cottage’s door and steps out into the freezing cold. Once he has boarded the truck, he turns around to take one last glance at the cottage and at Jackson but it’s too dark to see anything.</p><p>A couple hours later, Miller rummages around inside his backpack for that jerky that Jackson packed the night before. His hand touches something hard. It is Jackson’s copy of The Hobbit. Opening it up and peering at it, he sees some writing on inside of the front cover.</p><p>
  <em>Maybe someday we can sit by the fireplace and talk about books again. I’ll have a few jazz albums by then too.</em>
</p><p>Miller swallows a lump in his throat.</p><p>***</p><p>It’s been six months since the young soldier had to leave.</p><p>Jackson tries to get his mind back the way it was before. He reminds himself that he likes solitude. Reminds himself that it’s better to stay here, treating the sick and injured and spending quiet evenings alone, reading and drinking tea by the fireplace. Two men don’t get to settle down and live like a normal couple. It will never happen, it can never happen. A life of service is satisfying in and of itself, and provides a handy excuse to the townspeople as to why the doctor is still a bachelor.</p><p>And yet. Didn’t fate bring Miller literally to his doorstep? Can he really ignore that sign?</p><p>Jackson has written three letters to Miller but no replies have arrived. Perhaps his letters are not reaching Miller, or perhaps Miller’s replies just aren’t making it here. Or maybe Miller has simply moved on. He’s in the army, for goodness’ sake, surrounded by young men. Maybe he’s found a beau. Jackson would prefer that to the other, inevitable thought. There is a war going on. Soldiers die every day. True, the Allies seem to be winning but Miller’s life is still on the line.</p><p>As Jackson had predicted, the townspeople talk and ask about Miller often. They get so few visitors. Apparently during the truck ride to the city, Miller had passed around a pack of chewing gum to share and it was quite the hit.</p><p>Jackson debates the idea of riding the truck one morning to the city and calling Miller’s parents. But they have no idea who he is, and they might not appreciate some stranger calling about their son. At best they would be confused and at worst they might be panicked.</p><p>And then a week later, one of the townspeople knocks on Jackson’s door. “There was a long-distance phone call for you at the processing plant. A woman in Detroit named Mary Miller. She wants you to call her back.” He hands Jackson a slip of paper with her number.</p><p>He doesn’t need the number though; he has memorized it. “Did she say anything else?” Jackson asks.</p><p>“No. I’d tease you asking if you finally had a lady friend, but she sounded old enough to be your mom. Hey, Doctor…have dinner with us tonight. You’re too thin. I thought you loved my wife’s stew but you don’t look like you’ve been eating much.”</p><p>“Okay. I’ll join you.” Jackson knows he will need every distraction he can find until that truck leaves for the city tomorrow morning and he can call Miller’s mother back.</p><p>***</p><p>Miller is lying in a hospital bed – or what passes for a hospital and what passes for a bed - somewhere outside of a Nazi-occupied French city. At least, last he heard it was occupied by the Nazis but he thinks it’s possible that the Allies have been successful in driving the Nazis out. He doesn’t know and his head throbs with pain anyway.</p><p>He glances at the tray next to his bed.</p><p>Someone propped up the letter from Jackson. It’s been 10 months since he left the doctor’s cottage. Three months ago, he received a letter from him – and based on that letter’s date, the doctor had written it ages ago. Judging from the letter’s contents, it didn’t seem like Jackson had received any of his letters.</p><p>Though it hurts to move, Miller touches his fingers to the letter. He’s already read every word dozens of times and he’s glad that one of his friends thought to pull it out so he could look at it. Jackson had wisely signed his letter with just “J”. He was very careful with his wording but still – better to not advertise the fact that it’s from a man. Jackson’s neat printing could potentially pass for a woman’s hand.</p><p>He’s on a different continent from Jackson, so far away. Any time Miller has needed to feel comfort and warmth – and there have been many - he has thought back to his time inside Jackson’s cabin. During all the stress and fear, during the grueling days of a soldier’s life, Miller has had only to close his eyes and imagine himself back there, sitting by the fireplace with Jackson. Or under the warm blankets of their bed as the snowstorm muffled all sounds from the outside world. Once Miller got injured, he used this method even more often, to soothe himself and make himself feel calm.</p><p>Miller knows he needs to try to ask the next doctor or nurse he sees for more information about his prognosis. Segregated medical facilities don’t lead to the best care though, and even in this state, Miller can clearly tell that they don’t have enough medical staff treating either himself or his fellow Black soldiers.</p><p>He drifts back to sleep.</p><p>“Hey, there’s some Hindu doctor here to treat you!” Someone speaks the words.</p><p>“All the way from India?” Another person asks.</p><p>“They’re fighting this war too,” the first person answers. “I heard there’s a million of ‘em deployed in Europe.”</p><p>Miller tries to make sense of the words he hears. He opens his eyes and tries to focus. His mouth is dry but his head starts to feel clear and he focuses. And then he can’t believe what he sees in front of him.</p><p>“J – Jackson?”</p><p>“I’m here. I had to see how you were getting on.”</p><p>Miller feels Jackson’s hand on his arm but he still can’t believe this. He struggles to ask Jackson how he got here, and Jackson’s answer includes the townspeople giving him money, a bank giving him a loan, and the fact that being a doctor opens some doors for him – literally, when it came to him being able to enter this medical area -- even though he’s not part of the armed forces. Miller shakes his head. “You moved heaven and earth to get here.” He grasps Jackson’s hand though he knows his grasp is weak.</p><p>“More or less.” Jackson takes a breath. “I looked at your chart. I think you’re going to be okay. Might be a while before you feel back to normal, but you should be fine. I’m going to try to get access to a telephone or telegraph so I can update your parents. But they promised to put me to work here, and I really need to get to that too. The wounded here need a lot of help.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Miller looks down. “They treat Nazi prisoners better than they treat us.”</p><p>Jackson squeezes his arm. “I’ll do my part to help,” he says passionately.</p><p>“I still think I’m just dreaming or maybe hallucinating. You can’t really be here,” Miller murmurs.</p><p>“I’m here. I’m really here.”</p><p>***</p><p>A few days later, the two men are talking. Miller has thrived under Jackson’s care and is finally well enough to take a few steps. With Jackson helping to support his weight, they finish pacing the ward a bit and Miller is now sitting back on the bed.</p><p>Miller still is awestruck at the fact that Jackson managed to find a way to travel all this way. He looks around and sees that, for once, they appear to be alone.</p><p>“You know, I could go work at that shellfish plant. When the war is over.”</p><p>Miller knows it’s a bold declaration. But on the other hand, he’s certain that he and Jackson are on the same page now even though they’ve not discussed it. The fact that Jackson found a way to get here is a complete statement in and of itself. The doctor didn’t need to say anything else.</p><p>“Or we could….go somewhere entirely new,” Jackson offers. “I’ve been corresponding with three hospitals in San Francisco - all of them look promising and say they need doctors. San Francisco won’t be a utopia but it might be…well, it might be a place where the two of us can make a go of it.”</p><p>Miller can’t believe his ears. “But….you’d leave your cottage? For a huge, noisy city? And….<em>San Francisco</em>? I’m a Black guy from Detroit. The-the idea of moving there feels about as realistic as moving to the moon!”</p><p>And yet Jackson is surprisingly insistent, and as the doctor goes on to make his case, Miller realizes he just needed to be convinced. San Francisco is known as a haven for bachelors, as Jackson describes it. As a doctor, Jackson can get work almost anywhere. And Miller will be a veteran – that might open a door or two. The G.I. Bill passed last year, so maybe Miller can go to college on the G.I. Bill. Racism runs rampant in California just like anywhere else, but there are some signs that it might be less virulent in San Francisco than other places. It might be one of their better options even though they won’t be riding out any snowstorms around a fireplace there.</p><p>Miller laughs and shakes his head. “Okay. You convinced me. We crossed the world to find each other. Might as well make a go of this.”</p><p>Jackson smiles and takes the hand that Miller holds out.</p><p>
  <strong>THE END</strong>
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  <em>Author’s Notes: Thank you for reading this. I hope I did okay when I touched on race and racism. I didn’t think that I could set this story during World War II – or really any time before The 100 – and just ignore racism and the experiences that these two characters would have had. Discrimination and segregation against Black soldiers during WWII is well-documented.</em>
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  <em>On a happier note, the story title comes from a Duran Duran song called “Northern Lights”. It’s good – find it on Youtube! (I also have to admit that this won’t be my last fic named after a Duran Duran song, so I guess I just fancy their music).</em>
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